weeney Todd is one of Stephen Sondheim’s lesser-known shows; such is the fate, sadly, of cannibal musicals in these conservative times. Sweeney Todd is spooky and funny and deeply twisted, but it has nothing to rival the finger-snapping catchiness of “When You’re a Jet.” The current Broadway production is remarkably understated, considering its campy subject matter (a London barber who kills his customers and turns them into meat pies) and the razzle-dazzle that usually passes for entertainment around these parts. The most jaw-dropping thing about Sweeney Todd is what it lacks: an orchestra pit. The 10 or so actors play all the instruments onstage, which is a little bit like patting your head and rubbing your tummy at the same time—while jumping double-dutch. I’ve never seen this, ever, and I can only imagine director John Doyle must have balls of brass to use such avant-garde, chamber-stage techniques in a house like the Eugene O’Neill. I must admit I admired the show more than I enjoyed it. But I admired it an awful bunch. “We should have seen Chicago,” said an old couple exiting the theater. Now that’s a production I'd enjoy—and, quite likely, forget.